The Fire Drake
by willawow
Summary: A quiet excursion with Arthur and the knights soon becomes much more dangerous when Merlin is captured by foreign invaders, sending Arthur on a desperate search for his manservant.


Not eight months into Arthur's fledgling rule, the new king became restless, and temperamental. Many of the trade agreements had broken down between Camelot and the North which had resulted in weeks-long summits that solved nothing, a few pithy lords to the West had attempted to stir the population in questioning Arthur's right to rule, and the Christian monks and priests were kicking up a fuss that he had yet to be baptized. Arthur often found himself being shaken awake where he'd fallen asleep at his desk and coaxed to bed by Gwen. The lack of sleep and increasing pressure to "fix" so many of the kingdom's problems had caused no less than three complete tantrums, four frightened page boys, and one crying chamber maid. It was only after Arthur broke Merlin's wrist during a rather punishing practice session, that the newly appointed Queen Guinevere called a meeting of the knights and invited Merlin, too. Together, they contrived a need for a patrol that would require the king's attention and get him out of the citadel for a few days.

"Saints be praised!" Gwaine sighed. "I had begun to fear for my life."

"So did I," Merlin quipped.

Gwen pulled a sympathetic look and reached across the table, strewn with maps and notes, and gently touched his wrist where it was bound and splinted and held up by a sling. "He's under quite a bit of stress. The Northern Kings give him grievance. This trip will do him good."

Merlin nodded. "I'm sure it will—I'll see to it."

The knights all turned to look at him in surprise. "No, you can't—you're still injured," Leon said sensibly. "Gaius would have our heads on pikes."

"I'm not a child," snapped Merlin. "Gaius has no say over what I do. I am the king's manservant, I must be there—one arm or two—to serve him. Besides, someone needs to wash his smelly socks."

There was a few more minutes of general argument over this, which was mostly for appearance's sake—everyone knew Merlin would come along on the patrol, invited or not, regardless of his health. The knights knew that Merlin had a rather strange idea that he could protect the king in a way that they couldn't and, being that he hadn't died yet, it was difficult to say he didn't. If nothing else, he brought with him a sort of good luck. Certainly none of the knights would begrudge his company! On more than one occasion, Merlin had overheard Leon whispering to Elyan that he was 'better than any rabbit's foot'.

It was a brisk September morning when they set out. Each of them had packed a small bag of provisions to last a few days and Percival had silently saddled Arthur's horse, in deference to Merlin's injury. The king's manservant looked a bit tired himself, as he hurried after Arthur, trying to protect his injured wrist while simultaneously attempting to balance a pack and bedroll on his shoulder. Arthur looked guilty for a moment, but then his eyes flicked up to where a few of the Lords watched from their balconies, studying him, waiting for him to show weakness. Both he and Merlin knew that if he took the burden from Merlin at this moment, they would not see it as kindness or humility, but say it would be as shocking and inappropriate as Arthur groveling at his servant's feet. "Percival," the king hissed. Percival looked up from where he was tightening the saddle's girth. "Help Merlin."

Merlin smiled in thanks as Percival took the pack and began tying it to the back of Merlin's saddle. "I hope those old, ale-soused lords drown in their puddings," Merlin grumbled, accepting Percival's offer of a boost into his saddle.

They patrol trotted out of the courtyard a few minutes later, happy to escape the confines of the citadel. They picked their way through the crowded streets of the lower town, but hardly stopped to acknowledge any of the peasantry flocking to see or speak to their young king. Arthur spurred his horse quickly forward, breaking into a thrilling gallop as soon as he passed through the gates. Before them lay the open field that spread out from the city walls that quickly rolled into the dark, cool confines of the forest.

They turned their patrol towards Caerleon's borders, the king and his knights whooping and hollering like boys. Behind them, Merlin followed at a slower pace, sighing exaggeratedly. "Am I servant or a nurse maid?"

The knights finally stopped their ride before sunset. The air was cooling, but the sun still hung high enough in the sky to allow light for setting up the camp. They pitched their tents on the uphill side of a stream that gushed with cold mountain run-off. The bedrolls were shaken out and placed inside the tents, and water brought from the stream. "Merlin, why don't you go collect some firewood?" Arthur called. "I doubt you'll be able to carry much, so bring Percival to help you."

Sighing, Merlin stalked off into the woods, grumbling to himself. "Merlin, fetch firewood with your one arm; here lemme lob off your foot, too…" Percival grinned and made a face as he followed after him. As they two got farther away, they could hear Arthur and the knights burst into laughter.

"This is ridiculous!" Merlin complained and he tried to gather and balance a pile of sticks with the same arm.

"Mmm," Percival replied. "You would think he thought you were his servant or something."

Merlin glared, but allowed him to gather a pile of dry sticks and tinder and place it in the crook of Merlin's arms. The pile grew as Merlin watched the quiet knight do the work of a servant without complaint. Of course, Percival had likely been born a man of low-standing, like the other knights (except Gwaine whose secret had remained, shockingly, secret through numerous drunken nights), and was probably very used to such manual labor and menial tasks. Still, he was a knight, and didn't have to do the work, so Merlin decided to be grateful. "Percival, I—"

A battle cry rent the air, followed by another, and then dozens more. The sound of swords clashing echoed through the trees. "Arthur!" Percival had his sword out in a moment and Merlin dropped the wood to run towards the sounds of the fight. "Merlin, no, stop!"

He ignored Percival's shouts, rushing through the trees, as he followed the sound of the fighting back to the camp. His heart pounded in his ears, the familiar _lubb-dubb_ now sounding a new and different warning: _Ar-thur. Ar-thur._ He had to get to the camp. He had to—

A flash of white. A throbbing pain in his head. The ground rose to meet him as he collapsed. He opened his eyes not remembering closing them to see a man looming over him. His long, reddish hair was braided and knotted behind him, and he was clothed in linen and furs. A Saxon! No, not a Saxon, the words were different, the words that were coming out the man's mouth, and—oh! he was speaking. He was speaking to Merlin whose head felt like a beating drum and whose ears were ringing. He was grinning down at Merlin with teeth filed flat and marked by lines dyed red, and he was _speaking_. "... liten pojke. Om du skriker, kommer jag skära halsen."

Merlin blinked, colored dots dancing in front of his eyes. What?

A new battle cry sounded, this time from behind Merlin and he recognized the words. "For Camelot!" Percival leapt towards the not-Saxon, sword sweeping down, and connecting with the man's shoulder. The blade cut through flesh and tendon with sickening ease and the man screamed, falling away from where he leant over Merlin.

Percival reached down a hand and hauled Merlin to his feet—he swayed only once before catching himself. "Let's go!"

They rushed forward. The sounds of the fighting growing nearer. Merlin felt his magic curling in his gut, hissing like a cornered cat, angry, claws out, but still relatively harmless. The blow to his head left him feeling nauseous and confused, and the magic paced inside of him, caged. He had to be ready, he had to be prepared for a fight, he had to—"Ach!"

A second man, a new man, had him by the throat; a heavy, rune-carved sword was pressed just under his chin. Another dozen men were slipping out of the trees, swords raised, shouting at Percival and Merlin in their slippery tongue.

"Sätt ditt svärd på marken!"

"Vi kommer att döda pojken!"

"Lägg ner den!"

Magic! Where was magic when you needed it? Why did it shrink away at the exact time when having a bit of magic would be _really_ useful? Merlin could feel the golden sparking beneath his eyes, even as his vision swam. A hand curled around his broken wrist and he screamed at the sudden pressure, feeling increasingly nauseous.

"Stop! Stop, he's injured!" Percival cried. "Have pity, for God's sake!"

Merlin gasped for breath. Percival threw down his sword.

From amongst the men, the tallest, most imposing man Merlin had ever seen stepped forward. His blonde hair had been braided and knotted, loose strands falling over his forehead and curling around his ears. He had a full, reddish beard and a manic grin. He carried his sword casually at his side, dripping with blood still. Merlin felt his heart quicken at the sight of it. Whose blood was it? One of the knight's? The king's? The man went and stood eye to eye with Percival, grinning and laughing still, before studying Merlin. He turned his head this way and that before his gaze dropped to Merlin's injured wrist.

The man let out a derisive snort before turning his back and shouting an order over his shoulder. "Bind upp dem!"

* * *

Sunvidh's farm was large and prosperous. He had settled there twelve years before—there, his carefully chosen piece of land, nestled in a green valley, with a forest to the north and a stream that enriched the soil of the farmlands to the south, had been nurtured into abundance. The stream was filled with fish, and his fields grew as tall as a man in good years. At night, he would lie upon the hill above his home, and watch the _norrsken_ turn and shift, the ribbons of green lights twisting against the blue-black of the sky like a fire drake awakening from a long sleep. Always, he would come away happy from this. "It is a sign," he would tell his family. "A good sign."

His wife, Disa, would scoff. "So many good signs! Don't the gods ever give you bad signs?"

But, bad times rarely came.

The first year on the land in the valley, he and Disa raised the house—not as a humble farmstead, but as a portent of future wealth. They built it in grand fashion, long, with a roof so high that two men could stand with one atop the other's shoulders, and still not touch the ceiling at its peak. Sunvidh carved the lintel above the door with the image of a fire drake curled around the sun, and on the body of the beast, he wrote his name and a message:

_Sunvidh Torsson did raise this house to see the fire drake above his land. _

They took to catching fish in the stream and selling them, dried and salted, to men riding through their valley. Men traded with Sunvidh and Disa, so they would be allowed to sleep inside the warmth of the home, than in the chill air of the valley. With those trades they were able to buy first a brown milking cow, then a fine horse, a young bull, and, finally, a white bitch pup that Disa named Gylla. The livestock grew, the barley turned golden, and by the harvest, Disa's belly was swollen with child. The fishing was never bad, the harvest that first year plentiful.

In midwinter, on a cold, quiet night, with the _norrsken_ twisting overhead, Disa spread her legs, cursed Sunvidh's manhood, and shrieked their first child into the world. It was a boy; they called him Ormi, after the twisting, green serpent that lit up the sky on the night of his birth.

Sunvidh's father and brother came to look upon the boy. Sigtryggr, as always, came bearing many gifts that he had bought or garnered on his trips over the sea to other lands. He adorned his brother's wife in strings of new, colored beads and pinned silver brooches to her dress. To Sunvidh he gave two slaves—a learned Irishman called Airtre and a woman from the South, called Amma. With a smile, Sigtryggr explained that Amma's name was also her work.

"Poor Disa, she will need all the help she can find, raising your sons!"

Time passed, new buildings were raised to fit the livestock and the growing household. It was a time of blissful contentment—food was plentiful, life was rich, and even the household slaves ate like kings. Disa gave birth to another son a year and a half after Ormi, and they named him Karl. Again, Sigtryggr came to offer gifts, including five more slaves for the household.

It was nearing winter of his thirteenth year on the land when Sunvidh climbed the hill behind his farm, this time followed by Airtre, and Karl, who had grown into a moony, wide-eyed ten-year-old, with a penchant for story-telling and dreaming. They were all bundled up in wool caps, and fur-line coats and hoods against the chill October wind. A light dusting of snow had fallen in the valley, and a few flakes still floated lazily down from the sky.

"Herre Sunvidh," Airtre hissed, "we shouldn't be out in such weather. We are sure to catch our deaths in this snow."

Sunvidh barked out a laugh. "Is this what you Irish call cold? This weather is like spring! I could sleep here, on the hill, naked as a babe in this. Come, it'll do your warm blood some good to sit here—it will teach your body to be strong."

"Have you slept naked out her before, Father?" Karl asked in awe.

"Certainly!" Sunvidh said, delighting in the chance to spin such tales. "I have slept that way many times! Once, I even did so in snow so deep one could swim in it, and the wolves of the forest came to see this crazy man who dared to sleep out in such a way! When they saw I was alive, they must have thought me bold enough to be one of their own, and slept with me the whole night."

Karl's eyes grew wide. "Is that true?" Turning to Airtre, whom he considered to be as clever as the gods themselves, he said, "Airtre, you've known Father a long time—is it true?"

Airtre smiled, exchanging a mischievous look with his master. "If anyone could do such a thing, it'd be your father."

"I tell you, the gods love me!" Sunvidh cried, and laughed again. "They show me the signs in the sky when my heart is uncertain."

"So, that is why you've brought us out here in this cold," Airtre grumbled. "You are concerned about Disa."

A solemn look shifted over Sunvidh's face. "Yes, I am concerned. It has been ten years since she last gave me any child born alive. I am worried now that she is with child again we will see another still birth." He stopped walking as they reached the top of the hill, and grew silent. There was a long pause. Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howled, echoed by another further away. The night was quiet, and the snow could be heard shifting and crackling around them even as they stood still atop the hill. Over head the sky was a dark bruise, punctured by the pinpricks of starlight. There was no green glow of the _norrsken_. Sunvidh let out a long, slow breath. "Yes, the gods will give me a sign."

Sunvidh lowered himself to the snow covered ground, and Karl plunked down beside his father gracelessly. Airtre gave a huff and refused to sit, instead craning his neck to look up at the sky. They waited together, the hours passing slowly in silence. Airtre began to the shiver, his stocking wet with the snow. Karl kept still, his head resting on his father's shoulder—he blew puffs of air out, just to study the little clouds they made in front of him. Sunvidh began to the lose hope, and Airtre seemed ready to revolt and walk back to Ireland, when Karl spoke up. "Look! There!"

They looked. A small flickering of light, a tiny ribbon across the sky, and twisted and grew as they watched. Airtre let out a gasp. "What sort of sign is this?" Above their heads, the ribbons of light multiplied, stretching from one end of the sky to the next, and darkened to a deep, wine red.

"The gods," Sunvidh said finally, "are working something new."

* * *

Sigtryggr received the work that his brother's wife was once again with child, mere hours after driving his ship ashore. He laughed at the news. "What luck!" he told the messenger. "I've brought back the finest gifts for him!"

There, in his ship, shivering in the cold, wet air of the sea, were ten men and women. Most sat silently, too tired and frightened now to cry, or ask where they were. In the midst of them sat a tall, broad man, with arms as round and thick as tree trunks. His features betrayed no expression, no sign of anger or fear—but he watched Sigtryggr's movements with the eye of a warrior, though he'd been stripped of his sword and mail long before. Next to him, huddled in a red cloak that had been the warrior's, and glaring at Sigtryggr as if his wrath alone could kill a man, was a wiry, black-haired man of roughly the same age.

Sigtryggr saw the boy glaring at him, and laughed again. "Have something to say, boy?"

"Bydd y brenin achub ni," the skinny one replied. "Byddwn yn edrych arnoch yn cael eu lladd."

Uninterested, Sigtryggr turned away. "Your words mean nothing to me."


End file.
